Posts Tagged ‘humor’

In an exclusive interview with our Boo Feeder, Nancy Pelosi made some interesting observations that we are still trying to unravel. Read the question and answer session to form you own opinion. She was about to enter the Washington National’s stadium to watch the 108th annual Congressional Baseball Game when Feeder caught her in the elevator.

“Mrs. Pelosi, my name is Boo Feeder. Can I ask you a few questions before the game begins?”

“Feeder? Oh why yes of course! Your name ends in a vowel right? I always feel a special connection to our Italian – American heritage! ” She said while flailing her hands inside the tight space of an elevator.

Amazed that Mrs. Pelosi thinks an “r” is a vowel, Boo Feeder smiled then took advantage of the opportunity and continued the interview with ” Mrs. Pelosi, you called for Donald Trump to be impeached on Monday then one day later after the shooting of Steve Scalise said that you pray for Trump to have a successful presidency. Which one is it ma’am?”

“Young man! Why are we not moving? I pushed that button thingy for the penthouse suite and we haven’t left the first freaking floor!” She swung her arms so hard that her right hand hit Boo Feeder in the nose causing his delicate olfactory to spill blood all over his shirt. ” Hey pie-san you’re going to get blood on my Prada purse! You dumb wop! Get me out of here!” This time it was her left hand that she slung into his eye. “And hey pretty boy. What’s your name? Guido? Guido push that god damned button again. The one that has ML on it. Mi Lacasa! My home! Get me there goom-bah!”

Seeing no point to tell her ML was for the Mezzanine Level not whatever this crazy woman who’s now given him a black eye to match his broken nose, Boo went on ” Do you agree that the hateful, violent actions on the left such as mock beheadings and assassinations have ginned up the more mentally unstable citizens like the man who set out to massacre republicans?”

The elevator stopped then Pelosi stormed out screaming ” Where’s my people? Where the hell is my goddamned aide? Antonio, where are you sweetheart?” she kept yelling to crowds of people who kept clear of a woman who would have been best served with a straight-jacket than a Prada handbag.

Feeder, running after her with one hand squeezing his nose and covering his eye with the other looked just as insane as his prey. Then, lucky for him, someone on Pelosi’s staff swept her into a corporate box where he continued the conversation.

“Mrs. Pelosi, please can you tell me whether you blame the pundits, politicians and media for dividing the USA with acts of violence and what can you do to stop the madness?”

“Here boy, use this napkin on your nose. It’s disgusting!” She handed Feeder a Kotex she’d kept in her purse in remembrance of happier days then said “Blame? Oh no, I don’t blame my dear friends Ratchet Madcowe, Dan Crathers or Katy Griffing or anybody. We have to get it on! You know what I’m saying pie-sang? How dare they be so sanctimonkeyous! C’mon Boosh, we got’s business to take care of!” She slurred out then rolled her head backwards demanding someone walking by the opened door “Boy! Get me a damned drink! Vodka on the rocks but not the Russian kind. Leave that for Donald Trump. He drinks Russian vodka you know. I think he should..” Pelosi stopped mid sentence to stand up and run out on to the walkway screaming ” Did you hear that? Some guy on the loudspeaker said ” Sherman shot a bullet down first base line!” then screamed “GET OUTA THIS GOD FORSAKING PLACE! The freaking ass tanks are coming for us with weaponage! ”

Boo Feeder let he go, trying to interview a sober Nancy Pelosi was hard enough. Making sense of Pelosi after she’s had one or seven too many was a task only MSNBC would partake in. He went to the nearest Quick Care to have his injuries patched up then drove home breathing through his mouth and negotiating 495 with one eye, a task almost as dangerous as an interview with Nancy Pelosi.

After an extended vacation our fearless reporter, Boo Feeder, has returned for your pleasure. Mr. Feeder played gumshoe to track Bob Beckel to an after hours bar on 14th Street in southeast DC. Carefully memorizing the secret knock on the oak paneled door, Boo Feeder rapped three times, kicked twice then hummed the tune of ‘One For My Baby’ into the six inch sliding steel hatch. He was let in and, luckily for him, the patrons were too intoxicated to notice or care who the guy with an Orioles tee-shirt tucked into a pair of slightly too large pair of jeans. Feeder was happy to have lost a few pounds these past few months but not nearly as elated to have caught Bob Beckel alone with his cheeks falling over the sides of a barstool. He sat next to the come-back liberal on Fox News and placed his phone between them to record the conversation.

Beckel began with”Orioles huh? They blew it in the World Series last years. Why the hell you thank they’ll win this year? THEY”RE DONE I tell youse! Hey slim, what’s that chatterbox doing on the bar?”

“It’s my cellphone Mr. Beckel. I’d like to have our one-on-one recorded if that’s okay. Okay?”

“What the hell do I care asshole? Orioles suck!” Beckel said after slamming a bottle of soda on the bar.

“O’s haven’t been to the big show since 1983 when they beat Philly in five but that’s not what I want to talk to you about. Glad to see you’re drinking Coke not Coor’s but why here in a bar? Isn’t it dangerous for an alcoholic to sit at a bar at 3:30 in the morning?”

“None of your effing buzzniss buster. What you here for? Trump put you up to this? That freakin’ lying con man bazztert.” Beck was shouting now. With both fists pounded on the bar he continued “FREAKING LYINGS DRUMP! His goldamn fault that I’m sherry-er. Sum uva BRITCH flat I’m high against.” One cheek followed the other to the floor leaving Bob Beckel to shout more indiscernible words into the unpolished dirty wood flooring.

“But Bob, you’re drinking Coca Cola not some Russian vodka. How can you be drunk? Why do you hate Donald Trump so much? Isn’t anger poison to your sobriety?” Boo Feeder said compassionately. Beckel was like the political equivalent to Howard Cosell; a man you loved to hate. Not like this though. His fellow babbling, incoherent, angry Democrat friends can tolerate such vitriol but Feeder is not one of them.

“Druck? I’m not a truck! So I takes few pills so onest a while. SOO FreakING SO! I don’t take Votka so there your Trump bastred. I love efferyfuggingbody cept that bitsh Thrump. Heza LIAR! What ju mean Russia? You a goddam Russkier from that muffa Republicant Troump? GET OUR HERA BAZZERT! I TOLE YOU LOVE NOT HARE!” Beckel continued the rant rolling on the floor mumbling more profanity.

Boo Feeder watched helplessly as the straight jacket was wrestled on to Bob Beckel’s dirty suit and hauled off to St. Elizabeth’s Hospital. His suspenders were taken off for safety sake and tossed in the direction of Feeeder. He picked them up to hang them in his office where they are today. A memorial to the man that once was and is now in need of much prayer.

May God help Bob Beckel and all the other Trump haters that are so filled with anger that they defy the very principles they vie for.

Who doesn’t wonder how names were made? I certainly do. Why is a tree a tree and not a thumb? Or a lake not a rock? How about dick instead of a dog? If a cat is a pussy why can’t a dog be a dick? Think of all the ways we could turn a phrase:

A dick is a man’s best friend.

My dick loves to stick his head out the window.

It’s a three dick night.

Dang dick pissed on the carpet!

Yes, my dick is housebroken.

Your dick is SO cute!

Oh Boy! The Westminster Dick Show is on TV!

Taking my dick for a walk in the park.

My dick has fleas. He needs a dick collar.

If I put a GPS tracker on my dick, it’ll never get lost.

Excuse me. Have you seen my dick?

My dick loves his balls.

Down dick!

My dick and pussy get along quite well.

Good dick!

Has your dick had its’ shots?

Your dick has beautiful fur.

Most dicks have a wild streak in them.

A pack of dicks.

Please make your dick stop humping me!

And so on! If you have any more, send them along. Right now my dick needs to got out. Bye!